fic: Die. Slow.
Title: Die. Slow
Word Count: 4,230
Rating: PG-13 for language and heavy sexual implications
Pairing: Kind of Frank/Gerard. Also, implied Panic GSF
Disclaimer: Ahahahahahaha. I wish this were real, but unfortunately it's not. And I have no claim to the boys.
Summary: Panic vs. MCR. I WISH I WERE KIDDING.
Notes: I don't even KNOW, guys. This just kind of happened, thanks to this PatD interview and this video of Gerard. This fic is ridiculous, okay? Okay, it really is. It's also dedicated to
monanoche, who definitely indulged me and told me to write it. So yeah. Enjoy the feud.
Die. Slow.
Neither band was quite sure how it started.
The thing was, they didn’t even really know each other. They’d met through Pete (“Puppies at the Disco, meet Mikeyway! Oh yeah, and his band.”), exchanged pleasantries, (“Hey, I’m Brendon. Nice to meet you. We really like your music,” to which Frank had replied with a smirk directed at Ryan, “We know, we’ve seen pictures,” and Gerard had said, “What he means is thank you.”), and were familiar enough with one another to wave on the rare occasions that they happened to cross paths.
That really should have been that.
Then, after a show, Brendon and Jon were out talking to some fans, and a girl in a miniskirt and clown makeup that neither boy had the heart to tell her was so last tour leaned against the fence between them and her, snapped her gum to get their attention, and asked in a disparaging voice, “Is it true? I heard you and My Chemical Romance were like, having this contest. Over who was the better band?”
Brendon and Jon just stared at her blankly for a second, because really, what? Jon recovered first, though, and rested a hand on Brendon’s shoulder as he told her very seriously, “You heard right. It’s on.”
They pretty much forgot about it immediately after when they started signing things, especially because in addition to the CDs, tickets, and shirts, someone handed over an empty tampon wrapper, and that was way more alarming and hilarious than some rumor about them and My Chemical Romance.
It didn’t come up again until two weeks later, when Ryan walked into the one of the rooms holding his laptop up. “Um, guys?” he asked, “Why are all of the fans on Myspace asking about our feud with My Chemical Romance?”
Spencer and Brendon were focused on Guitar Hero and Jon was outside playing one-on-one basketball with Zack (who was kicking his ass), so no one responded.
Ryan walked right up to Spencer and smacked his shoulder with the laptop, and when Spencer turned around looking scandalized, shrugged and said, “You were ignoring me.”
“You let Brendon win!” Spencer yelped, at the same time that Brendon cheered loudly.
Soothingly, Ryan said, “You were going to lose anyway, Spence. Now, more importantly. Why does our fan base think we’re feuding with My Chem?”
“How the fuck would I know?” Spencer brushed past Ryan, heading for the coffee maker as Ryan made an annoyed huff.
“Brendon?”
“Kiss my ass, Spencer Smith! Guitar master.”
“Brendon!”
“Ryan!”
Ryan did his best to continue looking irritated as Brendon did what was presumably a victory dance. Really, it just involved a lot of shaking his ass around and grabbing his crotch. Not like Ryan noticed.
“Do you need to piss, or something?” Spencer asked, wandering back with his coffee, and Brendon pouted, but stopped dancing.
“So.” Ryan said loudly. At least, he was pretty sure he did, although Spencer and Brendon didn’t snap to attention the way that they usually did when he added inflection. With a frown he tried again. “So! Back to business!”
That time it worked, and both heads turned towards him, Brendon looking distinctly amazed. Ryan turned the computer towards them and let them read it, and as he watched, Brendon’s eyes got wider and wider.
Finally he bit his lip and said, “Oh, fuck.”
“Gerard!” Frank bounded into the front bus lounge and clambered onto Bob’s back, ending up on his ass on the couch about thirty seconds later when he was violently dislodged. Gerard made concerned noises and started to prod at him, checking for injury, but Frank batted his hands away and asked, “Did you start a duel with someone without telling me? Because that would be fucking uncool.”
Heaving a sigh, Gerard said patiently, “Frank, I am against violence. Except for that one video on youtube, you know, the one with-”
Cutting him off, Frank said, “No, not like that. Like, an interband duel. With Panic at the Disco.”
Bob added, “I think you’re using that word wrong.”
Head tilted to one side, Gerard mused, “Panic at the Disco? I don’t think so. I think I’d remember if I started a war, wouldn’t I? Oh shit! Oh shit, Frankie! What if I have amnesia? This is fucking-”
“-Awesome!” Frank replied, reaching into Gerard’s pocket and pulling out his cell phone. If he groped around a little longer than was necessary, no one could prove it. Flipping open the phone, he scrolled through until he found the number he was looking for, and then dialed.
As soon as someone picked up he took a deep breath and yelled into the phone, “You’re going down, motherfuckers!” He hung up without waiting for a response and handed the phone back to Gerard, who still looked a little lost.
“We’re at war with Panic at the Disco,” Frank said helpfully, petting his hair.
Gerard arched into the touch and asked, “Will there be violence?”
“Of course not,” Frank told him, and kissed his temple, “Well, maybe a little. You don’t have to condone it, just clean up the blood when they scratch me because they’re flailing like girls.”
After opening his mouth to protest, Gerard paused and surveyed Frank before saying, “Okay, then.”
“How the fuck does Gerard Way even have my phone number?” Ryan asked, staring at his phone in disbelief and some consternation.
Whatever, Gerard was kind of a creepy motherfucker, anyway.
Feuding, Brendon thought, was actually pretty boring. So far it had involved at lot of sitting around while Ryan pontificated about band unity and made obscure literary references (he made a few less obscure ones too, and Brendon had walked out of the room when he started telling them, “Think of this as the best of times…and the worst of times.). When he texted Pete to complain and ask him to shut Ryan up somehow, Pete responded hahaha, ryans crzy mway says its the same with gee in his camp. dont worry well get em
Obviously, Brendon had to take matters into his own hands if anything was going to get accomplished.
What actually ended up happening was everyone staying up so late that when they had an early webcam interview the next day, no one wanted to get out of bed until five minutes before they were on air (4:30. PM. Whatever, that was early). As a result, Ryan was blank(er than usual), Jon’s hair was sticking up in every direction, Spencer was keeping quiet to avoid bitching someone out, and Brendon was fielding as many questions as he could, because it was kind of his fault that they’d been up so late.
The interviewer started off asking them why they were all in bathrobes (there was a nervous titter of laughter among all four of them and a guilty look that got passed around before they gave a noncommittal reply), and the usual things about the exclamation point being dropped from their name.
Just before the end of the interview, she got into asking about what they had planned for future music videos, and Brendon let Ryan and Jon take over, hiding their yawns behind their words.
Then Spencer jumped in. He looked sideways, away from the camera, and added casually, “Next time we’re just gonna be in a big warehouse with lots of fire.”
Before the camera had even shut off, Ryan’s phone was buzzing with a text from Pete.
“They think they’re so clever, with their fucking angelic little smiles and big, innocent eyes.”
Gerard paced across the room, hands gesturing wildly. Mikey watched passively from the couch and took another sip of his coffee.
“All smooth, as if we wouldn’t notice.”
Mikey picked a piece of lint off his sleeve and set in carefully on the couch next to him.
“Mikey, are you even listening to me?” Gerard had stopped directly in front of his brother, glaring down.
After thinking about the question, Mikey shrugged and said, “Not really, no.”
Planting his hands on his hips, Gerard accusingly said, “I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously. We’re trying to quash a rebellious uprising of pretentious teenagers.”
As Ray ducked out of the bunk area, scrubbing his eyes with his hand and yawning, he said, “I’m pretty sure they aren’t teenagers anymore, actually.”
Dismissively Gerard flapped a hand. “Not important,” he stated, “What’s important is assembling the troops. We have to stand strong. Frankie’s already stirring up adversity by posting rumors online about their totally obvious foursomes.”
“Um,” Ray interjected, holding up one finger, “I really don’t think that’s-”
“Shhh,” Gerard hissed impatiently, “Now look, Mikey. Pete Wentz made all those buttons back on Warped Tour. I thought he could do it again, only this time, they would be buttons especially for the cause. The fucking cause!”
Placidly Mikey set down his empty coffee cup and tilted his head to one side. “You sound kind of like a duck when you’re worked up, Gee,” he said thoughtfully.
Gerard screamed.
It took awhile for Gerard to actually say anything about the Feud while he was onstage, actually. He kept meaning to, but then Frank would come rub up against him or feel him up, and he would kind of forget what he was supposed to be saying.
After one such show, he took Frank off to the side.
“Frank. You know I love when you touch me in inappropriate ways onstage to show our contempt for modern stigmas, right?”
“Yes,” Frank replied, and reached out to grope Gerard a little bit.
“Um. We’re…not onstage,” Gerard pointed out, thrusting against Frank’s hand.
“I was just checking,” Frank replied.
Confused, Gerard asked, “To make sure my dick was still there?”
“No, to make sure that’s the kind of touching you were talking about.”
“Oh.” Frank was so thoughtful. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. So, anyway, I need you to not do it.”
“What?!” Frank looked disbelieving, and he pouted a little bit. “But Jamia and Lyn even said it was okay!”
With a dramatic sigh, Gerard said, “I know. I don’t want to stop either. But I keep forgetting to say something underhanded and cutting about The Enemy.”
“Oh!” Frank considered it for a moment and then said, “What if you just said your thing and then I humped you?”
With a huge grin, Gerard nodded. “Shit, that’s perfect,” he said.
Frank leered back and asked, “So, need another demonstration of how I touch you?”
Gerard hauled Frank into his lap instead of answering.
The next night, at a show in Venezuela, as Gerard stalked across the stage he licked one hand and smoothed it through his hand, then stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled the microphone close with his other hand as he told the fans, “We’re gonna go home. Then we’re going to have one more tour. One more tour, you like that? Fuck yeah. And then we’re going to take a break to record a new album. And I think it’s going to be called Die period Slow period.”
The fans went absolutely batshit insane.
Frank licked his neck later, right where he’d written FOCUS, told him he was a genius, and then rubbed up against his ass.
Gerard considered the night a victory.
It went back and forth like that for awhile-little petty snipes that just fueled the fire.
Until an interview of Panic’s that aired on television.
All the members of My Chemical Romance, with the addition of Pete Wentz (“What the fuck, Mikey, what’s he doing here?” “Apparently laying on my lap. Kind of like Frank’s doing to you, except Pete doesn’t have his hand in my pants.” “I do not have my hand in Gerard’s pants!” “Actually, Frankie, you kind of do. It’s right next to my dick.” “Oh. Sorry?”), were gathered around the TV to watch the interview.
Panic filed into the interview room, casting a disparaging glance at the two available couches before squashing themselves onto just one of them. Jon was almost completely covered, and Brendon was sitting with half his weight on one of Spencer’s thighs and the other half on one of Ryan’s, sucking on a lollipop. When the interviewer smiled and asked if they were actually comfortable, they looked startled, and finally Ryan mumbled, “Um, yes,” in a long-suffering tone that clearly said that anyone who thought otherwise was just plain stupid.
The interview was based around a series of questions from the fans, and the four boys took turns answering them; there were only a few that were specifically addressed to one member or another.
On the second to last strip of paper, the interviewer’s eyebrows sketched high arcs that made it even more obvious that they were drawn on. When she looked back up at the four impassive faces before her, she chuckled and said, “I don’t know if I should ask you this one.”
They stared at her, waiting.
Another awkward giggle later she said, “But it passed the screening, so I guess that’s okay. Brendon, this one’s for you.”
Brendon pulled his lollipop out of his mouth with a sucking pop! and bobbed his head. “Fire away,” he told her.
“Alright,” she told him, in what was probably supposed to be a resigned, coquettish, remember-you-insisted voice, “The question is from Sarah hearts Panic, from Texas. She wants to know, ‘Brendon, if you could do you know what with any celebrity, who would it be?’” She tittered again, pressing orange-painted nails to her very red mouth.
The lollipop got sucked back into Brendon’s mouth, and he hollowed his cheeks around it, pushing it in and out absently before he yanked it free and, because he apparently had a death wish, said, “I’ve got it. Well, my band first, duh. But after that…” He looked at the cameraman and winked, slowly, “Definitely Frank Iero.”
As Gerard lunged for the television, making strangled noises, Frank rolled to the floor and Bob leaped up from his seat, wrapping his arms around Gerard before he could break one of their prime sources of entertainment.
Gerard continued to struggle in Bob’s grip, choking out, “Going to fucking kill that little fucker…”
“Gerard Arthur Way!” Frank yelled from the floor, “You dropped me on my ass, and I swear to Bob, I will fucking call your mother and tell her you’re being a bad example to Mikey if you don’t stop that!”
Gerard went limp, and Bob carefully set him down on the couch. Pete had his face buried in Mikey’s shirt, and Gerard chose to imagine that he was crying at the horrible idea of Brendon Urie and Gerard’s Frank, as opposed to laughing, because he could uphold his no-violence policy better if he believed that. Mikey patted Gerard’s knee comfortingly.
Once he had subsided into just seething with mind-blowing wrath, Gerard pointed an accusatory finger at the screen and said tightly, “This time, he has gone way the fuck too far.”
“He is kind of hot. I’d do him,” Frank piped up, because clearly he wanted to test Gerard’s saintliness.
“It’s a good thing I am fucking full of saintliness,” Gerard sniffed, “because it means I’m going to pretend that you did not just say that.”
“Pete, what the fuck are you doing in my bed?”
“Hey Spencer.”
“No, you know what? I don’t even want to know what you’re doing here, just get out. Now. I’m going to count to five. One…”
Pete fled.
Dun dun dun dun dun
“Tonight, I’ve got something fucking special for you.”
Gerard’s voice rang out over the crowd, over the opening notes of the song, just like always, and he raised his hands in the air to quiet down all the yells which had gone from a dull roar to a raucous screaming. Then he brought the microphone back up to his lips.
“Tonight, I’ve got a motherfucking awesome story for all you fuckers! It’s a story about a boy. Oh, but this wasn’t just any boy. This little boy thought he was a mother. Fucking. Rockstar. And this little boy, he wanted to play in the big leagues. Yeah, that’s right, the fucking big leagues. But that little boy, he, he didn’t know that he was in way over his pretty fucking face. Because he ran up against these other cocksucking boyyyyys, see? And he didn’t know what to do anymore, because he was a fucking infant next to them, you know? Ah. Ah, ah, ah ah ah ah ah ah ah….in the middle of a gunfight, in the center of a restaurant…”
When Zack walked onto the bus, he was waving a black envelope between two fingers. “Brendon?” he said, setting it on the kitchen table, “You got some mail.”
Brendon had taken two steps when Ryan was in front of him, blocking the way.
The only problem was that he was skinny as hell, so Brendon just stepped around him.
Instantly Ryan reached out to grab him around the wrist, yanking him back so he stumbled and had to catch himself on the doorframe. “Okay, Ryan, what gives?” he asked, rubbing his hip where he’d banged it, “You want to get mail, you should get some friends to send it to you. It’s kind of sad if you have to sabotage mine.”
In a scathing hiss, Ryan said, “No, Brendon, look. It’s clearly from The Enemy. It could be dangerous.”
Brendon eyed the envelope. It wasn’t smoking, and he couldn’t hear anything ticking to indicate a bomb. Still, he picked it up gingerly, between two fingers, and looked at it suspiciously. “Ryan,” he whispered, “I’m kind of afraid to open it now. Will you do it?”
Ryan opened his mouth and then shut it, sighing heavily, and they both said, “Jon,” decisively, marching into the back lounge and presenting the envelope to him.
“Um,” he said, looking up at the two serious faces before him, and the crinkled black envelope. Then he took it and opened it with a flourish, yanking out a piece of paper and holding it near the lamp. Slowly his mouth dropped open, and Brendon asked quickly, “What is it?”
Jon handed over the paper. In ornate Gothic script it read:
We’ve collected the necessary materials. Be ready.
Beneath that was a snapshot of Mikey and Gerard, scowling at the camera and holding two voodoo dolls apiece, each of which was carefully imbued with a few strands of hair.
Yeah, so Brendon was pretty much terrified of the Ways.
Things came to a head a month later.
It was purely coincidence that landed them playing a festival on the same day. They were scheduled, and Pete called them up three days later to say into the phone, “Ummm…you guys know you’re onstage the set after My Chem, right?”
Spencer, who he was talking to, just laughed into the phone for a solid two minutes. “We’ll be ready,” he told Pete finally, and went to find the rest of his band.
When Gerard got out onstage, he kept his face down until he made it to his microphone, and then lifted his head and arms together.
The swirls of color surrounding the black tree that climbed up his cheek and branched out over his forehead was done with an impeccably steady hand, and as people screamed, he said, “That’s right, motherfuckers. You’re a fucking gorgeous crowd, you know that? We’re giving a shout out to everyone who thinks they’re fucking bad ass. Guess what? You’re just as fucking special as all the other kids!”
Then they launched into the set.
Halfway through, he held up a hand, and told them all, “Our cover tonight is a little bit…different. But it’s going to be a mother. Fucking. Statement. Amen.”
As Panic watched from side stage, he counted out the opening beats to Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off.
At that, the temptation was too much to resist, and besides, apparently Spencer and Ryan were some kind of recon masters (Brendon felt sorry for their neighbors, back during their childhood). They slunk off and were back within five minutes, with plenty of time before their set, and watched the last thirty minutes of My Chem alongside Brendon and Jon.
After the set, Ryan, Spencer, and Jon crowded up at the stage door. The My Chem guys started packing up, and then they heard Gerard whisper loudly, “Stay onstage. Let’s see what those fuckers can bring back.”
Ryan, Spencer, and Jon squared their shoulders at that, and marched onstage.
They brushed past Mikey and Ray, and ignored Gerard and Frank (Spencer accidentally forgot himself and gave a small wave to Bob, blushing, but Ryan pinched his arm hard, and his expression went immediately back to stoic).
They arranged themselves with Ryan at one microphone and Jon and Spencer sharing another, leaving Brendon’s wide open. Jon tapped his experimentally, smiling serenely as he sent out a wave of feedback. “Hey,” he said to the crowd, “So apparently we’ve got some fans right onstage with us tonight.”
A laugh rippled through the audience at that, magnified when Ryan bent in to his mic and added in a low voice (audible only because he was practically touching the mic), “And uh, Gerard? Sorry to be the one to tell you, but that make up is pretty last-tour.”
Gerard’s mouth dropped open, and Ray muttered, “We’re getting schooled by little emo boys?”
Jon took over again. “So, I bet you’re all wondering where Brendon is, right?” The crowd roared.
“Okay, okay, shut up,” Spencer told them, leaning over Jon’s arm and grinning at him as he spoke.
“The thing is,” Jon continued, unfazed, “The thing is, I’m not sure if we have Brendon tonight, but we’ve got…” He looked over his shoulder, offstage, and said, “We’ve got someone for you. I guess. But you’re gonna have to yell. If you haven’t passed out from your orgasm of seeing us onstage with My Fucking Chemical Romance. So yeah, yell, and our singer might get his ass onstage. Come on! Yell!”
The fans were already doing so, partly in confusion, partly because of Jon’s instructions. The sheer volume was phenomenal, and clearly exactly what Brendon wanted when he pranced out onto the stage, resplendent in a bullet-proof jacket draped over by a bright pink boa. He bowed several times, formally from the waist, and the noise level rocketed straight up into deafening.
Across the stage, Gerard gripped Frank’s arm and squeaked, “That’s…those are mine! I haven’t even gotten to wear that one onstage yet!”
“It looked better on you,” Frank assured him.
“You stole those from us!” Gerard accused more loudly, and then into the nearest microphone, “You pretty-faced little bitches! That’s mine! You will pay.”
Jon and Spencer leaned against one another laughing, and Ryan grabbed his microphone again. Into the semi silence he said, “Yeah? Well, unicorns don’t exist.”
There was a horrified gasp from Gerard’s microphone, and then he spat out, “You monster!” Ray clapped his hands protectively over Mikey’s ears as Bob took a few menacing steps forward and Frank shook the fist that wasn’t clutching Gerard’s arm.
Jon and Spencer stopped giggling, and after a tense few seconds, Jon said, forgetting about the microphone, “Ryan…why would you even say that?”
Spencer put an arm around Brendon, who buried his face in the welcome shoulder. Ryan turned around and his eyes went wide.
“Brendon!” he said. There was even inflection. He walked over and tried to touch him, but Brendon twisted away.
“Say unicorns exist,” he said petulantly, still safely tucked into Spencer’s arms. Ryan looked equal parts repentant and scandalized.
“Brendon…” he said pleadingly, “don’t do this to me. That’s like giving in. We…we can’t just give in that way!”
“Say it, Ross,” Brendon replied, straightening menacingly, “or else after the show we won’t invite you to-”
Eyes wide, Ryan held up his hands. “Okay!” he replied quickly, cutting Brendon off, “I’ll do it, okay? Just…give me a minute.”
Returning to his microphone, he gave a huff and then looked over at Mikey, rather than into the audience, as he said, “I was wrong. Unicorns…” He swallowed hard, face twisting as he got out the words, “Unicornsdoexist. Sorry to…to Brendon. And um. Mikeyway. For saying anything else.”
Brendon beamed, and Frank looked at him approvingly. “Hey,” he said to Gerard, “Maybe Urie’s not so bad. I think he just made us win.”
Turning to glance at them, Brendon let his eyes travel up and down Frank, and then winked. Frank leered back.
“Don’t even think about it,” Gerard said, sliding an arm around Frank’s waist.
Frank leaned back into the touch and whispered, “Victory blow jobs?”
They were offstage in record time.
Epilogue
“Wait, so you’re telling me you planned all of this? Really, Pete?”
“Patrick, please don’t do this. Please don’t call Gerard or Ryan and tell them. It’s not my fault! I was bored!”
“So you spread rumors about a Panic versus My Chem feud??? And then played both sides?”
“…yes?”
“I’m calling.”
“Patrick! How can you betray me like this? I thought you loved me!”
“I do, Pete. I do. I’m also going to love seeing a Pete Wentz versus his two ex-gay-crushes’ bands feud.”
Patrick dialed.